


of all stars the most beautiful

by QuickYoke



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Character Study, Gen, No Romance, Worldbuilding, everyone is their book age and that means no romance you heathens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 18:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18856276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: Of all the stars in the galaxy, the blue dwarf of Asar around which Winterfell rotated was the brightest. A Star Wars AU told from Sansa’s perspective following the events of the books.





	of all stars the most beautiful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [appelkoek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/appelkoek/gifts).



_ “And I am a master of speaking silently -- all my life I’ve spoken silently, and I’ve lived through entire tragedies in silence.” _

_ -The Meek One, Fyodor Dostoevsky _

* * *

* * *

 

 

“How unlucky,” Cersei said, “that of all the Stark children, we got the dud.”

Sansa had to hide the shaking of her hands by shifting her grip upon the nanosilk fabric draped across her lap. The needle pinched between thumb and forefinger was a trembling sliver of silver. Cersei watched her openly while all the ladies-in-waiting pretended not to. Sansa kept her head lowered, focusing intently upon threading the needle. The patchwork lion was far from taking shape. From this angle, it might have been a housecat. 

Cersei lifted a glass of wine to her lips and took a leisurely sip. The drink stained her lips a bloodied red. “You should count yourself fortunate that your traitor family has such a strong history of Force users, little bird. Else we’d have no use for you.”

“I do,” Sansa managed to say. Her eyes flickered up to meet Cersei’s, only briefly, before she lowered them once more. “I count my fortunes every day, Senator.” 

There was a pause, during which Sansa did not dare look up; she could feel Cersei’s gaze upon her, heavy and dark. “I heard that Force-sensitives can feel when great disturbances occur in the universe. Tell me: did you feel anything when they cut off your father’s head?”

Sansa’s hand slipped. The needle pricked her finger, and it took all her strength to mask a flinch. Her blood welled up, glittering like one of the ancient crystals that gleamed through the nanosilk threads. Everyone was watching for her reaction. The room was breathless and still, and Sansa could hear the thundering of her own heart in her ears above all else.

She could remember the day her father was beheaded with all the clarity of the holograms that still played it in the streets, as if to remind the general public of what happened to traitors on Coruscant. It was the first public execution since the days of the Mad Emperor, but from what Sansa understood he had preferred to kill traitors with lightning delivered from his own hands. 

At least Ned Stark’s death had been quick. At least there had been no blood. His neck had been cauterised by the executioner’s blade, and when his body had slumped to the ground Sansa had felt the world tilt around her. As if everything had been irrevocably thrown out of balance. She had spent the next few days stumbling with every step as the ground beneath her feet continued to pitch. Sometimes she could still feel it, the universe slanting to one side as though a great weight were pushing down, until it was all she could do to cling upright.

“I felt nothing, Senator,” Sansa lied. “Nothing, save shame for my House’s infidelity to the Republic.”

Cersei sneered around her wine glass. “Just as I thought. A dud like your mother.”

* * *

 

 

The day Myrcella was escorted onto a ship for the starforge of Sunspear, there were riots at the docking bays. The Dornish vessel was sealed shut behind Myrcella’s small figure, and while Cersei wept, Sansa watched the massive docking bay doors behind them. She could hear nothing over the roar of the engines spooling up, like the roar of a hundred throats lifting to the haze-riddled skies of Coruscant. 

Cersei’s breath hitched in a sob, and Sansa had to lift a hand to wipe at her own eyes. It must have been from dust kicked up by the engines. The Dornish ship rose into the sky. Cersei stared after it long after Myrcella had gone. 

“I’m going back to the Federal District,” Joffrey announced in a bored tone. He was already walking towards the docking bay doors, gold-cloaked Lannister guardsmen marching in his wake. When Cersei, Tyrion, and the others did not immediately follow, Joffrey glanced over his shoulder with a thunderous scowl. “Well?” he snapped, his gaze turning to Sansa. “Are you coming or not?”

He did not wait for a response before stalking off once more. Sansa hesitated for only a moment before gripping her skirts with both fists in order to quicken her step after him. Tyrion tagged along behind her, and Cersei only turned away from the hangar doors after Joffrey had nearly reached the docking bay entrance and was waiting impatiently for the rest of his entourage to catch up. Sandor Clegane, the Hound of Mandalore, towered at Joffrey’s side. His beskar armour was soot-black, and a green cloak hung from one shoulder; the snarling jaws of a dog had been painted across the helmet indicative of his people. The old Mandalorian ways were few and far between these days, and Clan Clegane had only escaped the new Braavosi Mandalore by the skin of their teeth.

The docking bay doors opened. The howl of the engines could still be heard, but the ship had long gone. Outside, guardsmen leveled their blaster rifles at a baying mob. Upon sight of Joffrey and the others, the crowd went frenzied, like hounds scenting the air with blood. Sansa took a tremulous step back at the force of their furor. 

When a few broke through the ranks of the guardsmen, Clegane slammed his fist upon the control panel mounted on the wall, and the doors slid shut. One member of the crowd managed to slip through. Another was crushed beneath the descending weight of duralloy. With a casual air, Clegane unholstered his blaster cannon from over his shoulder and shot the one that managed to get through to their side. Sansa started. She swallowed and glanced quickly away, hearing the body fall, dead, to the ground. 

“This way, Vice Chair,” Clegane said to Joffrey. His voice was an electronic muffle through the speakers of his helm. He was already striding off towards a side exit.

Joffrey glanced between the body and the Hound before following. “What are they doing? Why are they here?”

“There’s a food shortage thanks to Stannis Baratheon winning over the bread basket of the Western Reaches,” Tyrion said, exasperated. “Don’t you pay attention to anything?”

“I’ll pay attention when I put you before a firing squad,” Joffrey snarled. 

Tyrion’s eyebrows rose, but he remained silent. Clegane smacked the side exit’s panel, and the door slid open. He ducked beneath the frame and quickly glanced around outside. 

“Is it clear?” Cersei asked. 

“Clear enough.” Clegane rested his huge blaster cannon against his shoulder and stepped into the open air.

The Lannister’s guardsmen circled closely around Joffrey, Tyrion, and Cersei, unholstering their blaster rifles. They jostled Sansa. One of them grabbed her by the arm and pushed her after the others when she hesitated. Every nerve in her body was screaming at her to stay within the safe confines of the hangar, to wait out the riots until the mob cleared, but she could do nothing when a guardsmen dragged her along in their wake.

They dodged down side-alleys, staying off the main streets as best they could. Sansa could just make out the hulking form of the Hound’s shoulders over the heads of the others; he led them on their path to safety. After they’d rounded another corner, the guardsman let go of Sansa’s arm to grip his blaster rifle more firmly between both hands. 

Just one alley over, she could hear a mass of people. The sound of blaster fire, the stench of burning skin and hair, the roar of anger from a crowd made her flinch.

“Hurry up,” Clegane growled. He grabbed Joffrey by the shoulder and pushed him to one side just as a laser round scorched the air where he had stood not a moment ago.

Joffrey’s face was pale. He had drawn his lightsaber but his hand shook. He pointed a finger down the next alley and yelled, “Shoot at them, already!  _ Shoot them!”  _

“Don’t be mad -!” Tyrion tried to say, but the guardsmen were already pointing their blaster rifles and opening fire. 

Clegane was aiming down his own sights now. Every pull of the trigger on his blaster cannon seared the air with noise. He had placed his body before Joffrey’s. A laser round struck his shoulder, but left only a blackened scuff mark on his armour. 

“I am your Vice Chair!” Joffrey was screaming. His face was flushed with rage and fear. “I am -! Just -! Kill them!”

The mob was starting to claw its way into the alley. Sansa could see the mass of bodies encroaching in upon them despite the firepower from Clegane and the guardsmen. She backed away with slow, shaking steps back the way they had come, watching the rest of the group be herded by Clegane into another alleyway running perpendicular to them. The mob gave chase. 

Nobody seemed to notice Sansa was no longer among them. Not even the crowd noticed her presence. She did not wait for them to do so. She grasped her long flowing robes between her hands, turned, and ran.

The mob had overwhelmed the hangar by the time she returned, breathing heavily. They were tearing apart one of the docked ships with their bare hands and sets of welders tools taken from the engineering quarters. Others were trying to break into the aircraft control room, which had been barred from within. Through the transparisteel windows, Sansa could see members of the flight control squad barricading the doors with furniture and yelling into their personal transmission devices. 

Sansa flinched when members of the crowd began to use a section of the ship as a battering ram. People were milling all about her, and with every violent jostle her hands shook so badly she could not keep them still at her side. She edged her way around the perimeter of the crowded hangar, trying every door handle she came across until she found one that was open. 

Slipping into a dark corridor lit only with blue lights along the floor, she shut the door as quietly as she could. Her chest rose and fell with every breath. She tried to keep her steps even as she walked down the corridor, but with every crash of noise through the door behind her, Sansa found her stride lengthening until she was running. 

She stumbled on the hems of her robes and had to steady herself against the wall. Pausing to catch her breath, she glanced around furiously when the door crashed open. Eyes wide, Sansa fumbled with a wall at waist-height. It was screwed shut, and no amount of twisting at the corners could convince the panel to loosen. 

The sound of booted footsteps and shouting echoed along the corridor, and dark shapes loomed behind her. Sansa scrambled in vain against the wall panel until in a fit of frustration she slammed her open palm against it.

The wall panel fell away to reveal a dark crawlspace. With a gasp, she crouched down and clambered inside. She only just managed to grab the wall panel and fix it in place behind her, when people stormed by her hiding place. 

It was a technician’s shaft, terminating less than a few meters deep into the wall, where a single panel of lights blinked intermittently through the darkness. Sansa had to curl her knees to her chest to fit in the crawlspace. She wrapped her hands around her ankles and held fast, burying her face in her knees and shutting her eyes tight. She could still hear the drum of feet outside, the angry voices chanting for action from the Senate; she could feel the hot press of bodies against her own, skin sticky with sweat, the flow of the crowd sweeping her away. 

Every second took an age to pass. Every rapid, panting inhalation was acidic with fear. The darkness pressed in all around her, a shadow with a great, cold weight. Sansa shivered. Her back and legs ached from being hunched up for so long. Every time the door rattled from passers-by, she dared not open her eyes. The darkness seemed to clog up her lungs, her mouth, her nose, until all she could focus on was her breathing, desperately trying to slow it down, to decrease the thundering of her own heart.

When the door was wrenched open, Sansa jerked back from the blade of light lancing through the crawlspace. She scrambled deeper into the corner, praying that she would remain unseen.

For a long moment there was silence. And then a familiar rasping voice growled out, “Almost didn’t notice you there, little bird.” 

Hesitantly, she lifted her head to find the masked Hound of Clan Clegane holding out his hand. “Come on,” he said. “We haven’t got all day.”

* * *

 

 

There was a wing of the Senate Dome that was always cold. Sansa avoided it as best she could, but some days could not be helped. Today she trailed dutifully after Cersei and her train of attendants, shrugging her shoulders against the chill. Hardly anyone else seemed to ever notice it. She had heard Joffrey complain once that the heaters must have been broken in this wing, and he had backhanded an electrician who insisted that he had triple-checked the HVAC system.

Cersei paused in a particularly well-lit section of the hallway between two massive pillars. Her hair seemed to glitter when she cocked her head and looked down at the floor. Cersei appeared especially severe today in her red and gold-trimmed robes of state. She gestured for Sansa to approach her, and the other attendants stood aside to let Sansa stand beside her. 

For a long moment, Cersei simply looked down at a section of the polished floors without saying a word. Sansa was loath to stand too close. This place made her feel greasy, cold, and unclean. Then, Cersei remarked casually, “My father has this place scrubbed by the cleaning droids every other day. He says it always feels dirty.”

Sansa nodded, but said nothing. 

At that, Cersei glanced at her sharply. “So, you feel it, do you?”

Sansa shook her head. “No, Senator,” she lied.

“No?” Cersei placed a hand on Sansa’s shoulder and pushed down, hard. “Tell me if the droids have done a decent job. Does this place still feel dirty to you?”

Sansa’s knees hit the floor, and she held back a wince. Cersei’s fingers remained digging into her shoulder, then softened somewhat. 

“Well?” Cersei prompted.

Sansa could see her own dim reflection in the polished surface beneath her. It was like looking into a smoke-tinted mirror, the vague impression of herself upon the oil-slick surface. “The floors are as clean as they’ll ever be.”

Cersei’s grip slackened. She smoothed her thumb over Sansa’s shoulder. “It doesn’t feel at all different?”

The floors were hard against Sansa’s knees, and so icy that the cold seeped through layers of Ottegan silk. Her breath misted slightly with every trembling exhalation. Her stomach churned, and she had to swallow back the bile burning in her throat. 

“This place is like any other on Coruscant, Senator,” Sansa said, keeping her face meekly downturned. 

For some reason that made Cersei laugh. “Here Elia Martell was defiled and cloven in two by the Mountain of Clan Clegane.” She smiled, and though she helped Sansa upright, her hand squeezed Sansa’s too tightly for any real warmth. “But you’re right. Coruscant is filled with places like this.”

Sansa snatched her hand back as quickly as she dared. Cersei’s face hardened, but before she could remark upon it, Sansa spoke. “Every planet has its wealth of ghosts. Especially those as ancient as Coruscant. But I would not know, Senator. The Unknown Regions and Outer Rim Territories do not have such rich histories as the Core Worlds.”

Cersei narrowed her eyes a fraction. For a moment Sansa feared she had said too much, but then Cersei turned away and continued down the hall. “Your idle chatter is going to make us late for the Convocation.”

Sansa ducked her head in a little bow, though Cersei could not see it. “Of course. Please forgive me, Senator.”

She drifted back to her place at the rear of the train of attendants. A few of the others shot her glances both suspicious and envious of the Senator’s attentions. Sansa waited until they were well beyond the wing before slipping away from the group and into a restroom. Nobody saw her go.

It was mercifully empty. Stumbling forward, she pushed open the nearest stall and only just made it in time to vomit into the toilet. She sank to her knees, gripping the bowl as her stomach emptied itself. 

Then, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand, Sansa stood. She checked her appearance in the mirrors. She washed her hands and fixed her hair. She snuck into the Senate hall before anyone could notice she had ever been gone.

 

* * *

Stannis Baratheon’s warships began their siege of Coruscant on a fine, breezy afternoon. Cersei invited many ladies of name and noble birth to her private balconies to watch as the skies rained down with fire. 

Sansa declined a glass of wine that was offered to her, but Cersei noticed. “You look pale, little dove. Come have a drink with me.”

“I -” Sansa started to protest, but quickly shut her mouth. She nodded and a full glass was pushed into her hand by a servant. Cersei watched with unblinking intensity as Sansa took a small sip. 

“Not like that. Drink, girl.” Cersei mimed the motion with her own glass.

Sansa drank.

“Why so pale?” Cersei cocked her head. Her voice was soft, and had all the veneer of sounding concerned, though her gaze was as sharp as ever. She wore an infinite variety of masks. Every time Sansa thought she had lifted one away, Cersei would have donned another in its place. “Have you so little faith in our Supreme Chancellor?”

Sansa shook her head. “Of course not, Senator. I am confident Chancellor Tywin will beat back this pretender without any trouble at all.”

The warships were pale shadows looming through the atmosphere miles and miles above the surface of the planet. From here, Sansa could barely make out the smaller fighters let alone the barrage exchange between them. 

Cersei did not look up at the sky. Her eyes remained fixed on Sansa. “What were you doing just before?”

Glancing over her shoulder in confusion where she had been sitting in a huddle with some of the other ladies, Sansa confessed, “Leading a prayer.”

“Leading a prayer,” Cersei repeated in a flat tone. Her lip curled. “You really are perfect, aren’t you?”

“Senator?”

Rather than answer, Cersei gestured for Sansa’s glass to be filled again, though it was not yet empty. “Drink.”

Sansa drank.

* * *

 

 

The siege lasted a mere two days. It was two days too long. Sansa listened avidly to the guardsman delivering his report to Cersei in a hushed whisper. How Minister Tyrion had managed to rally the troops after Vice Chair Joffrey had disengaged from the fight. How Chancellor Tywin had swept in from hyperspace with the combined Lannister-Tyrell fleet from Corellia and driven the pretender from the field. Sansa had watched one of Stannis’ enormous battlecruisers burn up in atmo. 

When she finally returned to her personal quarters, she was bone weary. Most of all, she wanted a long, hot shower and to change her clothes into something more comfortable than the formal constricting robes she always wore in the presence of others. Even before she opened the door to her quarters however, she knew someone else was waiting for her inside. 

She could not say how she knew. Only that she did. And it was with a shaking hand that she pressed the panel on the wall, which read her bio signature with a green light of admittance before the door slid open. A hulking shape stooped in a chair on the opposite side of the room, staring out the windows and into the glittering lights of the planet-wide city at night. 

Sansa stepped inside. The doors slid soundlessly shut behind her. “What are you doing here?”

For a moment, Clegane said nothing. His armour was covered in burn marks and blood. The edge of his cloak dripped onto the pale carpet. “I’m not here for long,” he finally rasped. “I’m going.”

“Where?”

His helmed head tilted, but he did not move or look around. “Somewhere that isn’t burning.”

Sansa swallowed. “And why come here? Why come to me?”

With a creak of armour, he rose. Slowly, he turned and crossed the room to stand before her. The city lights beyond glinted across his scarred armour. He reeked of battle, of strong spirits and singed hair. There was a bloodied tooth and some darker unidentifiable matter stuck to one of his broad shoulders. Sansa’s back stiffened, and she retreated a step until she could feel the door behind her. With his blaster cannon strapped across his back, Clegane was barely able to stand in the doorway. 

“I can take you with me,” he said. “I can keep you safe. I can take you home.”

The promise of Winterfell rang empty, but still the thought of snow and ice sent a pang of longing racing beneath her skin. A homesickness so strong she felt sick to her stomach. Her gut twisted itself into knots, and she had to blink back a burning in her eyes. 

Sansa shook her head. “I will be safe on Coruscant.”

Clegane lifted his hands and pressed hidden latches on the underside of his helmet. A series of clicks followed, and the hissing depressurisation of air. As he removed his helm, Sansa glanced away.

“Look at me.”

Hesitant, Sansa did so. Half of his face was seared away. She could see bits of bone through his oozing skin where the kolto tanks were unable to make him whole again, no matter how many treatments he endured at the hands of the medical droids. Despite his horrible disfigurement -- or perhaps because of it -- some instinct made her reach up and cup his scarred cheek, softly. His eyes widened, and the moment she touched him he jerked back as if she had scored his skin with her fingernails. 

Sansa flinched away from the sudden movement. She closed her eyes, waiting for the blow to come, but it never did. She could hear movement -- the creak of armour and synthweave -- and then the Hound’s voice muffled through the speakers of his helm once more. “Move.”

She shuffled from the doorway, her hands clenched into fists. Clegane hit the panel that opened the door, and then he was gone.

* * *

 

 

Minister Baelish arrived at the spaceport with the Tyrells. His robes were as sleek and dark as the rest of him; he stood out like a thorn amongst the leaves. Sansa was present with the Lannister welcoming party. She waited in Cersei’s wake like a shadow while Tywin and Joffrey bowed to their guests. 

Most of the time, people’s eyes passed over Sansa, as though she blended into her surroundings. The moment Petyr Baelish had finished bowing to the Lannisters and Tyrells however, his eyes sought her out. One corner of his mouth upturned when he found her, and as the rest of the group headed towards the Dome, he fell into step at Sansa’s side with an easy grace.

“You are looking very well, Lady Sansa.”

She inclined her head as graciously as she knew how. “Thank you, Minister Baelish. I am glad to see you unharmed from the battle.”

He waved her concern away. “Men like me don’t do well in battles. I stay away from them as much as possible.”

“That seems very wise,” Sansa said. Then she added, “Though I hear my brother goes where the fight is thickest.”

“Your brother is a pretender,” Littlefinger pointed out.

“And not very wise,” Sansa agreed. 

Secretly, she relished the idea of him cutting down the likes of Joffrey with lightsaber in hand. Robb had always favoured the bluest of crystals found in Ilum’s many kyber caverns. They said his lightsaber shone like a star upon the battlefield. Arya had always been the one to beg him to let her hold it for a time, since she was too young yet to have made one herself. She could often be seen scampering around Winterfell’s courtyards brandishing Robb’s blue lightsaber or Jon’s white-crystal saber while they called after her with laughter. 

Sansa had dared not touch one herself, though her father had held out his green lightsaber to her once. She’d always been afraid she would drop it and cut off her own toes. 

“What kind of droid is that?” Sansa changed the topic, nodding towards the massive robot striding exactly three paces behind Senator Olenna and Lady Margaery. It clanked with every step from the sheer weight of its armoured plates. 

“Ah, so you’ve noticed her, have you?” Littlefinger smiled, but the expression never touched his eyes. “That is BR-3N, a modified battle droid. Highly effective and fully sentient. Might I suggest -” he tilted his head so that he was closer when he spoke, so that she could almost feel the warmth of his cheek against her own. “- that you stay away from that particular hunk of metal? Her loyalties are impossible to buy. It would be a shame if she were to consider you critical to whatever mission parameters she has deemed worthy of her devotion.” 

Sansa nodded, but continued to stare at the droid’s towering skeletal figure. 

Littlefinger paused. “Might I have a moment in private, my Lady?”

Sansa glanced towards where the rest of the part was continuing on their way towards the elevators. “The others -?”

“We won’t be far behind.”

Uneasily, she nodded and allowed herself to be led aside. Littlefinger did not take her very far, just far enough that they could not be overheard. 

“I have good news,” he said once they were alone. 

“Good news you could not tell me in the company of others?” Sansa asked, wary. She had to stop herself from leaning away when Littlefinger took a step closer than she would have ordinarily liked. She never could shake the feeling that the air around Minister Baelish was filled with an unpleasant chill, the kind that made her desire a bath. It was an irrational feeling; the man’s presentation and hygiene were always immaculate. 

“I thought it best it come from me alone. I am, after all, your most staunch ally in the Core Worlds, though you may not know it yet.” When she said nothing in reply, he continued. “The Tyrells did not turn the tide of the battle for nothing. They have agreed to this alliance upon the condition of a marriage between the Lady Margaery and Vice Chair Joffrey Baratheon.”

A shock of fear twined its way through Sansa’s stomach. “But -?”

“Now, don’t worry. I have arranged that your engagement be broken off without any harm to your or your reputation. You must remain on Coruscant for now, of course, but be ready to leave at a moment’s notice,” he added the last almost as an afterthought, and Sansa felt her gut swoop unpleasantly at the idea of staying on this planet a moment longer. 

Still, he was watching her with an expectant expression. At a loss for what to do, Sansa stepped back in order to drop into a deep bow. “Thank you, Minister Baelish. I am in your debt.”

When she did not look up for a time, he tilted her head up with one black-gloved finger beneath her chin. He was smiling, but the sight was somehow sickly. “My dear Lady,” his eyes glittered like dark polished stones, “It was my pleasure.”

* * *

 

 

Sansa woke up from a nightmare, sobbing. She wrenched awake, her legs twisted in the covers, gasping for breath, her cheeks wet with tears. In the night, her room was dark, her windows tinted to keep out the lights of the city. 

She wiped at her face and draped one of the covers over her shoulders, wishing it were a wolf pelt from Lothal. With a wave of her hand over an electronic panel beside her bed, she left the windows only partially tinted and huddled on the floor before them. She tucked the covers tightly around herself and sat so close to the windows her breath misted the glass. She whispered an order to the computer, and it brought up a hologram of the galaxy.

“Unknown Regions,” said Sansa in a tone so soft, the computer took a moment to register she had spoken at all.  

The computer zoomed in.

“7G Sector, Ilum.”

The computer zoomed in again. Sansa’s breath caught in her chest. 

Of all the stars in the galaxy, the blue dwarf of Asar around which Winterfell rotated was the brightest. It burned cold and blue. From the surface of Ilum, the sun only rose once every nineteen days. Like this, feeling the chill of the air through the windows, wrapped in nothing but a sheet and a shift, Sansa could almost pretend she was there, safe within the walls of Winterfell, looking out at the fields of barren ice beneath a sky of eternal night. 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Joffrey gleefully informed her that her traitor brother and traitor mother were murdered by her uncle on Robb’s wedding day. They stitched his direwolf’s head onto his shoulders and chained his body atop the nose of a cruiser for a whole planet to see. 

Sansa balled her hands into fists until her fingers ached. She made not a noise of complaint. 

* * *

 

 

Senator Olenna sent a formal droid messenger to invite Sansa to join her in the Reach Consular Gardens for afternoon tea. When Sansa tried to give her acceptance, the messenger droid informed her that no reply was necessary and that Senator Tyrell was expecting her in two hours.

It only took five minutes by tram to reach the Consular Gardens from her personal quarters, but Sansa left with ten minutes to spare. The afternoon sun was bright, and the air warm when Sansa stepped from the tram. Above her the Reach Consular Gardens were a towering complex draped with vines and trees, like an island paradise floating amidst a sea of metal and glass. She walked inside and had to present her hand for a biosecurity scan before being allowed into the building proper. 

Nobody but the occasional droid paid her any notice as she ascended to the highest floor, which the Tyrell matriarch had made her personal quarters for the duration of her stay on Coruscant. She passed through the halls without speaking to anyone, until Sansa rounded a corner and caught sight of the tall modified battle droid from the spaceport.

BR-3N stomped right by without pause, though her head twisted around to take inventory of Sansa’s appearance. Sansa wilted somewhat beneath the force of the droid’s scrutiny. Out of force of habit, Sansa stopped to curtsy. 

Immediately BR-3N halted and returned the social courtesy with a perfectly executed bow at the waist. “Good day. You are the Lady Sansa Stark, are you not?”

“I - I am,” Sansa stammered, clutching at her robes with one hand.

“I met your mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, not long ago,” BR-3N announced. “She tasked me with bringing you home to her, at your earliest convenience.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. She could scarcely breathe. She stared at the droid, but before she could speak BR-3N continued in the same crisp monotone as before.

“I am afraid that due to her recent demise, the parameters of this mission are no longer possible.” BR-3N bowed again. “Forgive me, my Lady. I much admired your mother. I would have liked to return you to her.”

Sansa’s mouth opened but no words came out. She closed her mouth and swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. She took a deep trembling breath, chewing at her lower lip between her teeth. “That is quite -” She could not bring herself to say it was  _ ‘alright’. _ Sansa instead said in a shaky voice, “Thank you. I would have liked to have been returned.”

BR-3N straightened. “My indices clearly state that there is still a mission to be completed. Since your mother is dead, I will perform this task for both you and your sister instead.”

“My sister is dead,” Sansa said in a flat tone.

“Then I shall perform this task for you.” BR-3N placed a hand over her chest where her heart would have resided had she been at all human. “What would you have of me, my Lady?”

At that, Sansa blinked. “What do you -? Who owns your devotions now, BR-3N?”

“That question is irreconcilable. Please rephrase.”

“Surely you have a maker? A higher master?”

BR-3N inclined her head a fraction. “I have no master save those I choose, Lady Stark.”

Sansa shuddered. “Please don’t call me that.”

“Forgive me. What should I call you?”

“Just -” she inhaled a deep breath and had to close her eyes for a second. “Just ‘Lady Sansa,’ please.”

“Of course, Lady Sansa. Please inform me of what mission you would have me perform on your behalf.”

The sun above Coruscant glared across every metallic surface of the city, sending streaks of light through the atmosphere. Sansa’s mouth was cotton dry. She could feel a bead of sweat rolling down her spine, making the heavy silk fabric of her robes cling to her skin. 

She stared at BR-3N and wondered how far they would get before the Lannisters found them. She weighed the idea in her head. Then, glancing around them, she stepped forward. Sansa gestured for BR-3N to lean down, and the droid did so.

“What are the chances you could take me to Winterfell without us being caught?” Sansa asked in a hushed whisper.

BR-3N only took a split second to answer. “Based on the number of bounty hunters the Lannisters could purchase with their vast reserve of credits alone, my calculations for our probability of success are three-thousand seven-hundred and twenty to one. However,” BR-3N continued when Sansa looked especially crestfallen. “This probability can be increased to seven-hundred and twenty to one, should we be able to acquire a vessel with a hyperdrive.”

Sansa bit down on her lower lip so hard she thought she could taste copper. She did the maths in her head. They did not look pretty. 

“Would you like me to acquire a vessel with a hyperdrive, Lady Sansa?”

Feeling dizzy, Sansa shook her head. She took a step back. “No. Thank you, BR-3N. Your services are not required at this time.”

The droid cocked her head at an exact angle before straightening to her full height once more. “Of course. Should you ever have need of me in the future, please know that my devotions are yours to command.”

“I shall remember that,” Sansa murmured. She gestured over her shoulder. “I should go. Senator Olenna is waiting for me. I fear I am already late.”

“Until next we meet, Lady Sansa.” 

BR-3N offered another impeccable bow, before striding away. 

* * *

 

 

Tea with the Tyrells was like navigating a proximity minefield. Get too close to a conversational topic, and the talk detonated. Senator Olenna was particularly adept at launching barbed missiles; Sansa was a mix of taken aback and thrilled with guilty delight every time the Senator spoke with such contempt of the Lannisters, or Renly, or even her own people. 

“Renly was kind and gentle, grandmother,” Margaery admonished. “Father liked him and so did Loras!”

Olenna scoffed. “Loras is very good at doing barrel rolls and what have you in starfighters. That does not make him wise. And you know better than anyone that your father is the worst judge of character.”

To that, Margaery could only relent with a shrug and a nod. The faux guilty look she shot Sansa made Sansa bite her lip to keep a smile at bay. 

The rest of the party had been cordoned off in another section of the gardens. The three of them were alone, sheathed from the rest of the world by sheets of impenetrable transparisteel that created a glasshouse effect for the plantlife. Sansa felt overly warm -- more so than she usually did on Coruscant. She longed to remove the formal outer layer of her robes, but instead endured the heat as best she could. The hot floral tea did not help. Once or twice she sipped at her cup gamely, but otherwise left the table of food and drink untouched. 

In contrast, Lady Margaery and Senator Olenna lounged with the contentment of people completely in their element. Despite her formal wear, Olenna used one of the spare chairs to irreverently prop up her feet. She balanced a cup of tea between her fingers with a practiced grace, pausing every now and then during their talk to scrape cheese over a slice of bread and eat it. No matter how much she tried to ply both Sansa and Margaery with food, Sansa demurred, and Margaery would only partake in fruit that stained her lips red. 

“Now,” Olenna lowered her feet to the ground and leaned forward in her chair, placing her cup of tea aside with a crisp clack of porcelain. “I want you to tell me about this boy, this  _ Vice Chair. _ ” She said the title with the airs of someone who could not believe the words that came out of her own mouth. “Does he do anything of merit? Or is his occupation purely to be a shit little Force-sensitive?”

Sansa’s face froze. She cast about for what to say, but Olenna was pinning her in place with her gaze alone. It felt like being targeted by laser-based paint-stripper. “I - I -” Sansa had to clear the tremor from her voice. “I don’t know why you would ask me, Senator. I’m just -”

“- Just the only living Stark, who survived in the very lion’s den,” Olenna finished for her. “Yes, I’m very much aware of who and what you are. So, tell me.”

Sansa’s mouth worked. Her eyes darted around, but they were well and truly alone. Still, Varys was notorious for his many levels of infiltration devices that he could sneak into any circumstance. She wondered if it would be on a fold of her clothes. Or perhaps hidden in the bowl of fruit. 

It was Margaery who spoke next, and her tone was soft. She even reached out and touched Sansa’s hand where it lay on the table. Her fingers were warm. “It’s alright. Do you think we would ask you these questions outright, if we were not sure we wouldn’t be overheard?”

Sansa withdrew both her hands, clasping them together in her lap. “Forgive me for being so bold, Senator, but I did not survive the lion’s den by telling the truth.”

Olenna huffed with laughter. “And yet I’ve never heard truer words.” 

Sansa stared down at her hands and said nothing. The last time she had told the truth had been to Cersei. She didn’t realise it until later, but the information she had given had led to her father’s capture and execution. Sometimes she would lie awake at night and contemplate that fact until two of Coruscant’s four moons dwindled away, and a rosy-fingered dawn crept over the horizon.

With a sigh, Olenna reached for her tea once more. She took a sip, then said, “If it’s surveillance you’re worried about, then how about this, hmm? We’ll ask questions, and you needn’t speak at all. Just nod or shake your head.”

Glancing up between the two of them, Sansa slowly nodded. 

“Excellent. Would you pour me another cup, my dear?”

For a moment Sansa thought Olenna was referring to her, but it was Margaery who sat forward to grasp the glass teapot and pour a cup. 

“Thank you,” Olenna murmured without looking at her; instead she continued to study Sansa, and there was a tiny furrow in her brow, as though Sansa were some great puzzle to be solved. “Is he clever or diligent?”

Sansa gave the smallest shake of her head she could manage. 

“Cunning?” 

Sansa wrinkled her nose.

“I see.” And indeed, Olenna regarded Sansa over the top of her cup. Leaning back in her seat, she rapped her fingernails against the porcelain base in a contemplative manner. “Kind?”

Sansa sucked in a sharp breath. Her hands shook. She gripped them together to get them to stop. There were three exits in this room. She had taken note of them the moment she walked in; she did not know when this practice began, only that she always did it now. She could distract them, ask to go to the restroom. They wouldn’t know she was gone until she was halfway back to the Dome. 

But Margaery was watching her with large hazel eyes. “If I am to be married to him, I should be warned of his nature. Please.”

Sansa shook her head with a jerk, blinking back a burning in her eyes. 

Rather than appear angry, Olenna simply rolled her eyes in in disappointment. Neither she nor her grand-daughter seemed surprised in the slightest. 

“And so our suspicions are confirmed. Tywin puts too much stock in Force-users, the old ratbag. You should have seen the way he treated young Jaime and Cersei when they were children. Can you imagine? Punishing children for not being Force-sensitive?” Olenna gave a derisive snort. “Contrary to popular belief, sensitivity to the Force does not make or break a family’s fortunes. We put too much stock in the Force and not enough in actual people. You know I’m the only Force-sensitive in my family?” It sounded less like a question and more like a statement.

Sansa shook her head.

“Well, ours is a family descended from the gardens of Telos, before the Sith rained hellfire from the sky. I’m one of the only ones left who still has the gift. And yet the restorations continue. I’m told you haven’t a whit of Force-sensitivity about you, and yet -” Olenna frowned. “- I’ve never met a person more unwilling to be read, trained or untrained. How old did you say you were?”

“I didn’t,” Sansa breathed. “I didn’t say.”

Olenna smiled. “That’s not what I asked.”

“Thi-Thirteen, Senator.” 

“Thirteen,” Olenna repeated. She leaned back in her chair and propped her feet upon the spare once more. “So young -- young enough to still grow. You may surprise us yet.” She removed the embossed metallic cover from a plate, and pushed the dish across the table. “Lemon cake?”

* * *

 

 

There were whispers in the endless spires of Coruscant of the Targaryen heir, the last of the fallen Sith Empire. They said she escaped to the Outer Rim Territories. They said she liberated old slave colonies. They said she led an army of Dothraki Zabraks and Unsullied Twi’leks like none the galaxy had seen since the days of the united Empire. They said her eyes glowed golden as any Force-user inclined to the darkness. 

Joffrey scoffed. He claimed he and his most august grandfather would have sensed if there was any truth to these tales. He twirled his green lightsaber as he drawled, as if to show off that he had one and could ostensibly use it. Nobody mentioned that his own eyes had started to take on a more tawny hue.

Meanwhile, Sansa watched from the sidelines in silence as Tywin murmured orders to an attendant to inform him of the fleet’s combined numbers in Corellia and the Mid Rim Territories. The attendant scurried off with a bow, and Tywin caught her watching their exchange. Meeting his gaze felt like grabbing the wrong end of a cattle-prod. 

Sansa quickly looked away. 

* * *

 

 

Years ago, Sansa had learned from the Masters at Winterfell that the Dornish never used any Republic titles but their own. It still came as a surprise when she was introduced not to Senator Oberyn Martell, but to Prince Oberyn Martell. 

“You there! Stark girl!” 

She froze. She had been about to duck around a corner, but the unfamiliar voice called out before she could meld back into the shadow of the grey domed building arching overhead. Slowly, Sansa turned. The Prince of the Dornish Confederacy of Planets was striding towards her. One of his wrists rested comfortably on the extendable polearm sheathed at his waist. His saffron-coloured nanosilks were long and elegant, and revealed far more of his chest than anyone would have displayed in the Unknown Regions, where the planets were gripped with constant winter. 

Sansa bent her knees in a curtsy. She kept her eyes at his feet. “My Lord -? I mean - My -? Your Grace -? My Prince?” she fumbled with how exactly to address him.

Wrinkles creased the corners of his dark eyes when he smiled. “Last I checked, Ilum was not part of Dorne, and I am not your prince.”

“I -” Sansa blinked in confusion at his warm expression. “I’m sorry.”

Oberyn gave a small laugh, coming to a halt before her. “For what?” 

“Well, I - I don’t know.”

“I had heard that the people from the Unknown Regions were as blunt and cold as their terrible weather. And yet -” He used both hands to make an expansive gesture at her. “- You apologise when you have nothing to be sorry for?”

She ducked her head in a half bow. “Forgive me. I thought I might have caused offense.”

“We aren’t so thin-skinned as your people are led to believe. I think I can take whatever you have to dish out. Here,” He went to the ground on one knee before her, offering his cheek and miming punching it with his own fist. “Would you like to try?”

At that, Sansa reared back, staring at him in shock. 

He swept a hand over his heart as if struck by a physical blow, yet he was grinning up at her. “Ah! So, she does have eyes! And what beautiful eyes they are, too. For a moment there, I thought you might be Miralukan.”

Sansa flushed. She glanced around, half expecting people to leap from behind a pillar and catch her in the act of -- what, exactly? Something that could be used against her, she was sure, though she did not know how. 

The smile slowly faded from Oberyn’s face. He watched her now with an expression that could only be described as sombre. “They have you that frightened, do they?”

“I don’t know what you mean, my Lord.”

With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. “Of course not.” He gestured with one hand and for a moment she was afraid he would touch her, but he did not. “Come! Walk with me a while.”

Dutifully, she did as requested. For a moment Oberyn held out his arm in such a way that she could choose to take it while they ambled together down the halls of the Republic Executive Building. She did not take it, instead clasping her hands in what she hoped was a demure fashion. He lowered his arm, but did not seem to mind at all, if his cheerful expression was any indication. 

There was no place in particular Sansa needed to be and nothing she needed to do today, but that did not stop her from glancing over her shoulder every so often to check if she was being followed. Cersei or Joffrey might summon her presence on a whim, and exact punishment for a perceived slight if she arrived late to some meeting or another. 

Outside it was raining. Sansa wished it would snow, but it never got cold enough on Coruscant for that. She gazed out the floor to ceiling windows as they walked. “Have you been on Coruscant long, my Lord?”

“I never stay on Coruscant longer than necessary. It’s a shithole planet.” He gave an expansive gesture towards the windows with a grimace. “Too many people. You’ve been here - what? Almost a year now? Don’t you feel claustrophobic here?”

Sansa jerked her eyes down, watching her feet. Fear stirred up in her gut, fear of being caught looking longingly towards the skies. “The Core Worlds are lavish and fanciful beyond imagination,” she said as she always did whenever pressed on the subject. “They are like legends, themselves.”

At that, Oberyn hummed a thoughtful note in the back of his throat. “There are legends about your planets, too. Wolves large enough to ride across fields of ice. And kyber crystal deposits as tall as mountains, catching the light of the stars until they are like stars themselves,” Oberyn said. His eyes sparkled with a youthful kind of glee at the thought. “Is it true? Or are these tales exaggerated?”

Sansa found his enthusiasm too infectious to ignore. She smiled weakly. “They are somewhat exaggerated. But not by much.” 

“I would love to visit one day with my girls. Travel broadens your horizons; opens up new opportunities and experiences.” Slowing his steps, he snapped his fingers and pointed at Sansa as if coming to a sudden realisation. “Have you ever been to Dorne?”

She shook her head. 

“Then, you should visit us!” Oberyn continued walking, guiding her around the perimeter of the building and away from any would-be eavesdroppers. “Travel is good for the spirit. You would flourish away from this place.”

Sansa dodged that comment. “Is that why you’ve come to Coruscant? To lift your spirits?”

This time his smile was less than pleasant. “In a sense, yes. I’ve come to kill a man.”

A chill walked its way down the length of her spine. Her stride shortened, and Oberyn’s matched her pace so that they continued to walk, side by side. “And why have you sought me out, my Lord?”

“I thought I might present you with a gift of sorts.” He lifted one hand and waggled it in the air. “Call it a ‘new opportunity,’ if you’re so inclined.”

Slowly, Sansa said, “I am not accustomed to receiving gifts. And I’m not sure if it would be proper for me to accept.” 

“You think your jailors care about propriety?”

Sansa’s back stiffened. “Vice Chair Joffrey is noble and strong as a lion, and I am lucky to -”

Oberyn came to a stop and waved away her platitudes. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard that old song already. For the record, you are very convincing.”

Lips pursing, Sansa ducked her head. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest. Adrenaline coursed through her; it was difficult to keep still. 

If Oberyn noticed, he gave no indication of it. He made a show of digging through his pockets for something. “Now, where did I -? Ah! Here.”

Sansa had to mask a flinch when he held out something in his hand to her, as though he were offering a hissing snake. When she saw what it was however, she blinked. 

It was, for all appearances, a needle. Overly large, perhaps the length of her palm and the width of her littlest finger at its broadest end, it tapered to a narrow point. Its broad end had a loop, as though for a chain, or perhaps a strip of narrow cloth with which to stitch things together. 

Hesitant, Sansa took it. She turned it over in her hands. “What is it?”

“A transmission device.” While Oberyn explained, he did not look at her, instead casting his gaze around like a predator scanning the horizon for deer. “With it, you can send a message that is completely untraceable.”

Sansa tapped the narrow point against the pad of her finger. Immediately, a holographic display leapt from either end of the needle -- a small keyboard and screen made of golden light. The cursor blinked intermittently at the top left corner of the screen. There was no field in which to enter an address, only to enter a message. 

“Who does this device transmit to?” Sansa asked. “You?”

Oberyn chuckled. “No, no. My paramour: Ellaria. I think she and my daughters should travel more. See other places in the galaxy. The Outer Rim. The Unknown Regions. They could bring friends with them. And they have many friends.”

Sansa gripped the needle tightly in one hand, and the holographic display vanished. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, my Lord. And if I did, it would be treason.”

“Treason to visit friends in their homes?” His smile was warm, almost affectionate, but it had a dangerous lilt to it all the same.

“I cannot invite you or your daughters to Ilum. However,” Sansa said slowly, scarcely believing her own audacity. Clutching the needle in her hand, she swallowed thickly. Then, she tucked the needle safely away in a hidden pocket of her robes. “There are very strict rules about hospitality in the Unknown Regions. If anyone were to appear in Winterfell and beg a seat at my table, I could not refuse them.”

Oberyn's answering grin showed teeth. “I shall keep that in mind.” 

This time when he held out his arm, Sansa took it. Though she only allowed the tips of her fingers to rest in the crook of his elbow. He continued to walk with her, looking to any prying eyes like a Prince taking a Lady for a courtly stroll and nothing more.  

“You are not as powerless as you have been led to believe, Lady Sansa.”

“Forgive me, my Lord, but I do not have the power of the Sunspear at my command.”

He laughed, a warm rich sound. “This is true. But then again, a Star Forge is not the only thing that saved Dorne from conquest, you know. Power,” Oberyn said, pointing at where the sun hung in the sky above two of Coruscant’s four moons, “is being able to tell people ‘no’ and them not being able to make you say ‘yes.’” 

Sansa frowned. “But what if the Sith had won? What if you had been conquered by Aegon?”

The Prince shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then we would have still not said ‘yes.’”

“But then you would have died,” Sansa pointed out.

“Ah, but don’t you know?” He leaned forward, patted her hand where it lay in the crook of his arm, and lowered his voice as though he were about to share with her a well-earned secret. “All men must die.”

* * *

 

 

As if gazing into the sun, Margaery shielded her eyes with the flat of her hand when she looked up at Sansa. “Have you always been this tall? Only that I could have sworn you were shorter when last we met.”

“I - I think so?” Sansa glanced down at her own feet in confusion. 

They were walking along the Reach Consular Gardens. The sun was shining down, bright and hot through the greenhouse glass. This time, Sansa had arrived prepared, and worn lighter silks. It was still too warm. Her skin felt sticky when Margaery linked their arms together.

“I’ve always envied tall girls,” Margaery confessed with a sly twinkle in her eye. “Especially pretty ones like you.”

Sansa could feel her face flush from something that was definitely not the heat. “I try not to be so tall. It’s not very ladylike.”

“Nonsense! You should carry yourself with the dignity you deserve. And you should use height to your advantage.”

Sansa frowned in confusion. “What advantage?”

Clasping one of Sansa’s hands so that their shoulders brushed with every step they took, Margaery twined their fingers together. “A commanding presence. Height helps, but I’d wager you’re a natural at it, if you put your mind to it.”

When Sansa shot her an incredulous look, Margaery laughed. She unhooked their arms and dropped Sansa’s hand, stepping forward and stopping so that they stood face to face. “Come on, then. You don’t think so?”

“The only thing I’ve ever been able to command was a sewing needle,” Sansa said dryly. Then, she added. “And Lady.”

Margaery’s brow wrinkled. “You commanded a Lady?”

Sansa smiled softly. “No. Lady was my direwolf.”

For a moment Margaery just stared at her. “You owned a direwolf,” she said slowly. “And you named it  _ Lady?”  _

Sansa was sure that if her face flushed any further, she would be bright as one of the roses that overflowed the gardens. “I was eleven!”

Margaery laughed not unkindly. “It’s a perfect name. It suits the both of you.”

“Now you mock me.”

“I do not! Trust me when I say: you could command the souls of men if you only wished to.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed, skeptical. 

“You don’t believe me?” Margaery teased. “I could show you.”

Sansa glanced around. “I’m not sure this is -” 

Margaery took her hand and gave a gentle tug. “This way, then.”

She pulled Sansa deeper into the gardens, where the foliage grew thickest, almost wild. The air here was clotted with a mist that beaded upon the leaves. Margaery ducked beneath a branch, and where it brushed against her head it left trails of starry dew in her hair like a crown. That same branch thwacked against Sansa’s shoulder and left a wet mark on her formal robes. 

When they were surrounded by dense shrubbery and the trees encloistered them like the walls of a Temple, Margaery stopped. The warm mist swirled at their feet. 

“Now, then.” Margaery straightened and looked Sansa dead in the eye with an expression of mock seriousness on her face. “Chin up. Shoulders back but relaxed. No, like this.”

She reached out and smoothed her hands across Sansa’s shoulder, dropping them so that her palms rested against the backs of Sansa’s elbows. “That’s better. Don’t look away. You should maintain eye contact.”

Gathering a deep breath in her lungs, Sansa steeled herself. She drew herself up to her full height and looked down at her with as much gravitas as she could muster. Almost imperceptibly, Margaery’s smile slipped. She withdrew her hands from Sansa’s arms. “Thirteen years old, you said?”

Sansa blinked. “Yes. Why?”

That seemed to break whatever spell had been cast over her, for Margaery brightened to her usual candor once more. Still, she was the first to break eye contact. She hid it well. “I was just wondering -- don’t they start Jedi training quite young?”

“Usually. There’s no hard age; it’s just as soon as a child shows potential in the Force.”

“And you never underwent any training?”

Sansa shook her head. “I take after my mother.”

“Five children are Force-sensitive, and only one isn’t?” Margaery wheedled. “That can’t be right. Have you never tried?”

At that, Sansa shifted her weight from foot to foot uncomfortably. “What would be the point?”

“Won’t you?” Margaery urged. Her eyes were large and brown and bright. “Just the once. Just here. For me. I would love to see it.”

“Haven’t you seen your grandmother use it?”

Margaery rolled her eyes, but her exasperation was clearly aimed at the absent Olenna and not Sansa. “Grandmother doesn’t like to flaunt her abilities. The most I’ve ever seen someone use the Force was when she used it to throw a piece of fruit at my father for being -- and I quote --  _ ‘a half-witted moof-milker.’” _

At that, Sansa could not hold back a snort of laughter. Still smiling, she covered her mouth with one hand. “Yes. There was a lot of that going on, growing up in my family.”

Margaery was watching her fondly. “Your family is so lucky to be so blessed.”

“Maybe your grandmother is right.”

“That my father is a half-witted moof-milker? Yes, I daresay she is “

Sansa huffed with laughter. “No. That the Force isn't everything you need in this world.”

At that, Margaery arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like something only Force-users would say.” 

When Sansa shook her head with a nervous and self-deprecating grin, Margaery reached into her pocket. She pulled something out and gestured for Sansa to hold forth her hand. Hesitating for just a moment, Sansa did so, and Margaery dropped a small rosebud encased in a cube of clear epoxy resin into her palm. 

Margaery let her fingers trail across Sansa’s wrist for a moment before lowering her hand. “Try.”

For a long moment, Sansa looked at the resin-caged rosebud. She could remember as a child watching all of her siblings learn that they had the gift. Even Bran and Rickon, young as they were. It manifested in each of them differently. The line of Starks was ancient, and the Force strong in their blood. And yet, one by one, they all received training with their Father at their private Temple at Winterfell, a hot spring that welled up beneath the surface of the ice, around which a sacred grove had taken root thousands of years ago. All except Sansa. 

Her mother had comforted her in her bitter disappointment. It did not take long for Sansa’s disappointment to curdle into resentment, and then into an air of practiced indifference. She had claimed she did not want such gifts, that she had never wanted it. She whetted her skills on other more noble pursuits, pursuits worthy of a true lady and not of the fallen Knightly order of Jedi, who had been brought to heel by the Targaryen Sith so many generations ago. 

She had never been able to lift so much as a snowflake with the Force. She was sure the result would be the same with a rosebud.

Sansa concentrated, but the only thing that seemed to come into focus was Margaery. It were as though all her airs and charms were melting away, as though she had reached up and slid a mask from her face to reveal the expression that lurked beneath. The charismatic young woman vanished, and in her stead a sixteen year old slip of a girl who fiddled with her fingers when she thought nobody was looking. 

“You’re nervous,” Sansa murmured. “Though, I don’t know about what. Your wedding?”

Margaery inhaled a small sharp breath. She smiled, but somehow it was like sheer silk -- entirely unconvincing. “What woman wouldn’t be nervous about her upcoming wedding day?”

“I wouldn't know. A happy one, maybe?”

Though her smile remained, Margaery lifted her chin and looked Sansa in the eye. “I wouldn't know,” she echoed. 

When the silence extended a little too long, a little too tellingly, she reached out to close Sansa’s hand over the rosebud. The action broke whatever strained tension that lingered in the air, and Sansa blinked. 

“Speaking of marriages,” Margaery said. “I have a proposal for you.”

“You want to propose marriage to me?” Sansa repeated, confused.

“Yes.” Then, realising what she had said, Margaery’s eyes widened. “What? No! Not - Not  _ me.  _ Not that I wouldn’t -” Clearing her throat, Margaery straightened her spine. “A proposal on behalf of my eldest brother, Willas.” Margaery clasped both of Sansa’s hands between her own, so that Sansa cupped the rosebud between her palms, the resin warming against her skin. “We could go to the Reaches and be sisters. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Sansa’s mouth felt dry. Margaery’s hands were as warm and soft as her eyes. She thought of Arya, who had never been warm nor soft, but whom she still missed terribly -- like a limb that had been sawn off and now she was haunted by phantom pains. Perhaps that was the ache of longing in her chest when Margaery looked at her like this. 

Margaery stroked her thumbs over the back of Sansa’s knuckles. Sansa gave her a tremulous smile. “Yes. I would like that very much.”

“Please know,” Margaery said. “That whatever happens, should you ever need a friend, I am always yours.”

“You are too kind.”

“Not at all. I am exactly as kind as is required.”

Sansa inclined her head. “And I shall not soon forget it.”

“Excellent.” With a last squeeze of her hand, Margaery leaned up on her toes to plant a chaste kiss to Sansa’s cheek before letting her go. “I would hate to be forgotten.”

* * *

 

 

At the end of the long length of the Temple, Tywin Lannister held out his arm to walk Sansa down the aisle on her wedding day. He wore black leather embroidered with red and gold silks, saturnine as a funeral service. It was the first time Sansa had been close enough to touch him, and she hesitated to do so.

“Begging your pardon, Chancellor,” she murmured in a hushed tone. “But what are you doing?”

Tywin cocked his head to regard her. They were eye to eye. She was tall for her age, not yet full grown, and already she stood level with him. “Your father is dead,” he said, as matter-of-fact as ever. “My grandson wished to walk you in his place, but I am the father of the known galaxy. It is only fitting that I be the one to do so.”

For a moment Sansa had no reply. Finally she managed, “You honour me.”

“Yes,” he said gravely. “I do.”

His arm was still waiting for her, not impatient but expectant. As though he knew full well that she would take it, that it was only a matter of time. And she did. Sansa slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. The leather of his jerkin was rich and supple yet cold; but she was used to cold things. 

His eyes were pale and button-glass blue. He did not move, and for a moment Sansa could almost feel the way his gaze tried to pry her open, like blunted fingers digging into the rind of fruit. Her shoulders stiffened, but she remembered Margaery’s words and did not look away. Something flickered across his face -- confusion? anger? she could not tell; he kept his emotions more closely guarded than his bank vaults -- and then Tywin looked away. 

“Shall we?” he said.

It was not a suggestion.

He led her down the aisle, where Tyrion waited, dressed in the resplendent colours of his House.  As Tywin handed her over to his least-favoured son to be wed in a sham of a marriage, the only thing Sansa could think of was how for so many years as a child she had dreamed of a moment like this: marriage to a prince or lord of wealth and name. Her mother had brushed her hair, and Sansa had read ancient epics on courtly love. Now that it was finally happening, it was Sansa could do to keep herself moving forward, to keep herself from turning and fleeing from the Temple, begging BR-3N, Littlefinger, Olenna, Oberyn -- anybody -- anybody who might take her away. 

But every eye in the Temple was upon her, and this time there was nowhere for her to hide. 

* * *

 

 

Sansa felt a the hairs rise on the back of her neck when Joffrey lifted a glass of wine to his lips at the wedding feast. It took less than a minute for him to die after the wine touched his lips. Sansa was the first on her feet, chair scraping along the ground as she scrambled back from the banquet table, but nobody paid her any attention.

The wine glass shattered on the ground. Joffrey was clutching his chest, rending at his clothes as though they were too tight, constricting his breath. Margaery’s eyes were wide with genuine surprise, but when she reached out to touch him, Cersei was there to push her aside. Sansa couldn’t remember ever seeing Cersei look so raw; her face was an open wound. She was trying to support Joffrey’s weight, but his knees gave way, and she bore him down to the ground.

“Get a medical droid!” Tywin barked from the sidelines, pointing imperiously. 

Joffrey was vomiting blood. A splatter of red mucus stained the edges of Cersei’s cloth-of-gold robes. Margaery covered her mouth with both hands and turned away. Sansa’s eyes were wide. She backed away, barely registering the fact that she had bumped into a pillar behind her.

Everyone was on their feet now. Shocked gasps echoed throughout the hall. Jaime Lannister, Captain of the Chancellor’s Guard, bounded over a table, pushing aside guests and knocking food to the ground in his haste to reach Joffrey and his sister. When he reached them however, Cersei bared her teeth at him like a wild thing.

“Don’t touch him!” she snarled. “Don’t -! Joffrey!  _ Joffrey!”  _

His body was wracked with spasms. Rivulets of blood streamed from his nose and down the side of his face. The skin of his face was purpling.

By the time the medical droids had swarmed around them, Cersei was rocking his corpse in her lap and pleading to no one, crooning his name over and over like a prayer. When she bowed her head over him and sobbed a broken note against his neck, her cheeks shone with tears, but when she looked up her face was a mask of cold, blind fury. 

Sansa nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand at her elbow. She whirled around with wide eyes to find Littlefinger directly behind her.

“Come,” he urged, his voice low, eyes fixed upon the scene before them. “Quickly now. We need to leave.”

In a daze, Sansa allowed Littlefinger to grab her by the wrist and pull her from the grand hall. She looked over her shoulder only once. Cersei had her hands around Tyrion’s throat; Jaime was trying to tear her off of him; Tywin stared down at his grandson’s body with a dispassionate gaze; Olenna took a surreptitious sip of her own wine glass. 

Littlefinger tugged her around a corner, and hurried her along a long corridor. The world seemed to pass by them in a blur, and suddenly he was pushing her into a private speeder. The door closed behind them, and the vehicle lurched into the air before they had time to put on their seatbelts. Sansa had to steady herself with a hand on the roof. The pilot sat in front of them, a cowled man she did not recognise. He remained utterly silent as they pulled out into traffic and began to race through the atmosphere towards their destination.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

Rather than answer immediately, Littlefinger pulled a grey hooded cloak from beneath the seat and draped it across her shoulders. “Away from Coruscant,” he said as he tied the cloak at her throat. His gloved hands brushed her hair back when he pulled the deep cowl over her head to obscure her face. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Swallowing thickly, she nodded. 

He continued to play with the hood of her cloak, twitching the cloth so that it settled over her face just so. “Rest easy. The worst has passed. I have a ship with a hyperdrive awaiting us at the nearest spaceport. We’ll be away before the Lannisters can even lock down the planet.”

Her hand was still braced against the roof of the speeder. The vehicle gave another jolt. “This is -” Sansa tapped her finger against the roof. “- all very well planned, Minister Baelish.”

“I like being prepared.”

She turned that simple statement over in her mind, trying to find how all the pieces fit together. “If you killed Joffrey -?”

Littlefinger tilted his head to one side. “Who said I killed Joffrey?”

“Well -” she fumbled for what to say, “- Having well-laid plans around a poisoning sounds like having a hand in the act itself.”

“And yet if you ask anyone, I’ve been in the Namadii Corridor for weeks.”

“The surveillance footage -”

“- Will show nothing,” he finished for her. “Not of me, nor the murder.”

The speeder made a sharp turn, and Sansa was nearly flung sideways, whereas Petyr swayed easily with every jolt of the vehicle. 

“If you killed Joffrey,” she repeated, “then what do you gain? Tywin Lannister is still the Supreme Chancellor. Who will the Senate vote in as the next Vice Chair?”

Littlefinger shrugged, but his face was alight. “Who can say? With House Lannister in control, the opposition party is all but nonexistent. Tywin can prop up an empty tin suit, and the Senate would vote for it.” His dark eyes gleamed hungrily, and he leaned in close. “But don’t worry. We have something much better than empty promises.”

Sansa masked the flicker of suspicion that threatened to cross her face. “What do we have, Minister Baelish?”

He grasped her shoulders, and though his gloved hands were warm, his touch was as cold as his smile. “You, my dear girl. We have  _ you.” _

When they reached the spaceport, speeder alighting gently in the hangar bay, Littlefinger offered Sansa a gallant hand to help her from the vehicle. Then, turning back towards the speeder, he drew a blaster pistol from beneath his robes and shot the pilot in the back of the head. 

* * *

 

 

They said she poisoned Joffrey. They said she throttled the life from him wielding nothing but the Force. They said she shapeshifted into a massive wolf and dragged his carcass through the Senate in her jaws, painting the floors red with him. They said she conspired against the Galactic Republic like her traitor father and traitor brother. They said she fled to the Dornish Confederation of Planets and lived with the Sand Snakes Syndicate. 

It only took four nights in hyperspace to reach Eyrie space station. Through every one of those nights, Sansa dreamed of the snowy surfaces of Ilum, and the timeless grey allacrete walls of Winterfell. 

* * *

 

 

Before they docked at Eyrie space station, Littlefinger made Sansa dye her hair black. He made her wear robes as dark and sleek and austere as his own. As she tugged the doeskin gloves over her hands, she caught sight of herself in the narrow mirror of her ship’s quarters. She looked like she had been cast from the volcanic glass of Mustafar.

What few things she had been able to bring with her from Coruscant, she now had to leave behind. She chewed her lip as she studied the scant few items she had jammed into her pockets or draped around her shoulders before fleeing the Core Worlds. At the time, Littlefinger had claimed he had packed all her personal effects in a hard-lined case. When she had unlatched the case however, it was to find it filled with an assortment of clothes she did not recognise, but which all fit her perfectly. 

A blush-coloured rose encased in a translucent and enduring epoxy resin given to her by Margaery upon the sun-drenched garden rooftops. A dark pelt of wolf’s fur given to her by her mother for her birthday before she left Winterfell -- it seemed like so long ago now. And, of course, the overly-large decorative needle given to her by Prince Oberyn Martell. 

The outfit Littlefinger had provided for her to wear upon arriving at Eyrie station had no pockets. Sansa weighed the rose in one hand and the needle in the other. Looking around the room, she placed them both on the bed, and crossed the cramped room. She had to stand on her toes to unhook a chain from the storage compartment. One end unhooked easily, but the other wouldn’t budge. Sansa accidentally ripped it free, but the chain still clung to a black metal attachment which had previously held it to the compartment door. 

It would have to do. She walked back over to the bed and clipped the needle onto one end of the chain. The metal attachment she disguised as a bit of unorthodox jewelry around her neck so that the chain hung at her hip like a chatelaine. The pelt she draped across her shoulders. The tickle of warm fur against the skin of her cheek and neck was her sole comfort. 

She traced her thumb over the edge of the resin-caged rose. She thought of tucking it beneath one of her long sleeves, but feared it might slip loose and fall to the floor. Before she could change her mind, Sansa left it behind, in the very centre of her pillow, like a forgotten sweet for children. 

At the doors of the vessel, Sansa had to brace herself against a wall when they came out of hyperspace with a jolt. She staggered. Littlefinger grabbed her by the shoulder, though she did not need his help. Quickly, she straightened, but refrained from shrugging his hand away. 

“You look perfect,” he remarked, and he smoothed his hand down her arm before letting her go. “Dressed just for the occasion.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “What occasion?”

“A wedding.”

Another one? She was just about sick of weddings these days. Instead, all she said was, “Whose?”

Their ship was slowly drifting into its docking bay. “Mine, of course.”

Though she schooled her face, something must have given her shock away, for he laughed quietly. “Do I not seem the romantic type?”

“I -” Sansa fiddled with the needle at the end of its chain. Littlefinger’s eyes darted to the movement, but he dismissed it as a piece of sombre jewelry. “I do not rightly know, Minister.”

Petyr smiled at her. “Then I shall have to change that.” He pressed a panel on the wall, and the door lowered with a hiss. “Shall we?” 

She gripped the needle in her fist, wishing it were a saber. 

* * *

 

 

When they met, her Aunt Lysa smiled and held her and pet her hair. Even as Sansa allowed herself to be hugged, she had to hide her aversion by burying her face in Lysa’s shoulder. Something about Lysa felt sick, oil-slick as an engine leak. Sansa pulled away and wished she could wash the grime that seemed to stick to her skin like a film. 

The wedding between Petyr Baelish and Lysa Arryn was a private affair. Only a handful of officials attended the ceremony proper, though a number of high ranking Captains of the Corridor Fleet and other people of note attended the banquet afterwards. She was introduced to all of them as Alayne Stone, Littlefinger’s natural born bastard daughter to a dead mother. She bowed, and curtsied, and shook hands, and murmured social pleasantries, and not once did anyone suspect the truth. Everyone knew Sansa Stark had sought refuge in Dorne to escape trial for murder.  

The great hall of Eyrie station was made entirely of transparisteel. No matter where Sansa looked, her stomached swooped with discomfort at the sight of space extending in every direction. Seated at the long banquet table beside little eight-year old Robert Arryn, she tried to eat but ended up merely picking at her full plate instead. Every time she brought the fork to her mouth, she would glanced at the vast expanse of space directly beneath her feet, and immediately set the fork back down.

Outside in the hard vacuum of space, the famed Gates of the Moon seared. The energy field burned a constant violet, strung between the eponymous moon that had been cloven in two during the Conquest. It was a miles-long net of pure light, like a chain strategically cast right across the hyperspace route of the Namadii Corridor, which stopped any travel between Coruscant and the Bilbringi system. 

Sansa watched as a bit of debris floated too close -- the wreckage of a pirate ship that had tried its luck and failed. The wedge of the hull hit the energy field, and only a mist emerged on the other side.

To her left, Littlefinger was murmuring something in her Aunt Lysa’s ear. Whatever it was made Lysa smile, and Sansa looked quickly away. To her right, Robert was struggling to cut his food into pieces.

“Alayne, cut my food for me,” he demanded, throwing down his cutlery with a clatter.

Sansa blinked at him in confusion for a moment. She glanced over at Littlefinger, but he was still engaged with Lysa. Resigned to her fate, Sansa pulled his plate over so that she could do as she was told. 

“Not like that!” he whined. “Smaller!”

She cut the pieces smaller. 

“No! No, you’re doing it all wrong!”

When she held up a full fork to him however, Robert slapped it out of her hands. The fork clanged across the table, and the food it had been holding hit Sansa on the arm. She snatched her hand back, shocked by the sudden urge to slap him. She swallowed her anger down, tempered it, breathed until it dissipated. 

Robert slammed his tiny fist atop the table. “Do it again! Do it right this time!” 

The others in attendance were pretending that nothing out of the ordinary was happening in the slightest. Or perhaps they were used to this. Even as Robert yelled, his hands began to shake, his shoulders trembling wildly. Lysa’s chair scraped back and she was halfway to standing, when Littlefinger placed his hand over her arm. 

“It’s your wedding day,” Petyr said. “Relax. Enjoy yourself. Let my daughter worry about all that for you. The medical droids will be here soon enough.”

Robert’s yells were escalating, growing shrill and wordless. He was gripping the edge of the banquet tablecloth tightly in both hands, his knuckles white and bloodless. Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth. 

Eyes widening, Sansa hesitated for only a moment. She shot to her feet. It took her an age to untangle Robert’s clenched fingers from the tablecloth without ripping half the dishes from the table. As gently as she could, Sansa dragged him to an empty back corner of the hall. He kicked and thrashed the whole way, wild and shrieking. 

“Shh!” Sansa hushed him urgently. “Please.  _ Shh.” _

She reached out to touch his face, but he recoiled from the cold material of her gloves with a startled wail. Quickly, Sansa removed them and tried again. She pulled Robert close and smoothed a hand over his head and whispered soothing things into his head of dark curls. Gradually his cries lessened to dull whimpers, his thrashing to the occasional twitch of his arms and legs. Until finally his body stilled, and he seemed to rest peacefully in her arms. 

She thought of Cersei, cradling Joffrey’s dying body to her chest, half bowed over him, whispering desperate, tearful pleas. And when the medical droids arrived to take Robert away, he went without a fuss, appearing dazed, as if half dead already.

* * *

 

 

Eyrie space station was too large to heat every room. Sansa happened upon a locked door during her explorations through the shadows of the station, when she would escape Lysa’s or Robert’s or Petyr’s attentions to roam the halls, alone. Upon removing her glove and pressing the wall panel a second time, the door had slid open.

The room beyond was sheathed in a sheet of ice. The HVAC system had been shut down for the entire wing. Slowly, Sansa tugged her glove back over her wrist and stepped inside. Her breath misted in plumes like pale feathers from her mouth. 

The cold sliced through her fine nanosilk synthweave. She could taste the frost upon the air, the way it lingered at the nape of her neck like a kiss. For a moment, she allowed herself to stand in peaceful silence and dream of home.

“I had wondered where you’d wandered off to.”

As if jerking awake from a reverie, Sansa whirled around to find Littlefinger watching her from the doorway. He stepped inside. His dark boots left footprints in the frost. 

“However did you manage to get in here?” he asked, though he did not sound the least bit angry. “I could have sworn this whole wing was locked up tighter than a Tyrell’s corset.”

“It opened for me,” Sansa said. 

The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. “Of course it did. Sometimes I think the universe would do anything for you. I know I would.”

She had no reply to that.

“And what was it you hoped to see in this -” he held a hand out towards the ice-clogged vents dripping with rime. “- frozen wasteland?”

Before she could stop herself, Sansa said, “Home.”

For a moment he studied her. Then, he circled ‘round her. He kicked up a bit of soft ice with the tip of his boot as though it were snow. “Home is not so far as you might think.”

“Six days in hyperspace from the Namadii Corridor,” Sansa replied without hesitation. She had traced the route with her fingers across the holographic map of the galaxy more nights than she could count.

“Like the blink of an eye, really.” Littlefinger came to stop before her. Standing this close, she could tell just how short he was; the top of his head barely reached her eyes. “You’ll see it again. I promise you.”

She did not believe him. Not for a second. She could scarcely remember the last time she had truly believed anyone. “When?”

Littlefinger reached up and touched a lock of her dark hair, and his voice was hushed. “When I become Lord of the Corridor. When the Captains of the Eyrie see you for who you really are -- wolf pelt thrown across your shoulders and your hair like Voss in autumn. When they pledge themselves to you. When we storm the Unknown Regions with a fleet to rival Corellia’s, and take back what is yours.”

The chill was settling beneath her skin now. Petyr stood too close, and despite being taller she felt very small. His words were a wine-dark murmur. “All this I’ve orchestrated for you. I’d say that’s worth a kiss, wouldn’t you?”

The word  _ ‘No’ _ died on her lips as his mouth touched hers. He was cold, cold as a wing of the Senate Dome where she had once knelt. When she felt him cup her cheeks in his hands, Sansa ducked her head to break the kiss.

“Excuse me, Minister Baelish,” she mumbled. “I must - Excuse me.”

Stepping back, she strode away as quickly as her feet could carry. Long after she had escaped the frozen wing of the Eyrie and was safely back in her private quarters, gripping the needle tightly in her quivering fist, Sansa could still feel his eyes upon her, watching. 

Sansa toyed nervously with the needle between her hands. The metal slowly warmed beneath her touch. She worried her lower lip between her teeth. As if by accident, she touched the pointed end of the needle, and stared at the holographic keyboard and screen that leapt to life. The cursor blinked back at her, waiting. 

With shaking fingers, Sansa typed a message. She had to delete it several times before she was satisfied. And even then, she was half-tempted to crush the needle beneath her heel and forget this whole thing ever existed. Instead, her finger hovered over the send button before she steeled herself with a deep breath and pressed down.

The message was sent. The holographic screen flickered and went dark. 

* * *

 

 

“You said you wanted to see me, Aunt Lysa?”

No matter how long Sansa stayed here, the great transparisteel hall of Eyrie station would always make her stomach drop. She lingered at the entrance of the hall, where the floors and walls were good solid durasteel, where she could maintain the illusion that she would not fall away into the vastness of space. 

The hall was empty save for Lysa, who stood in the very centre. Her back faced the entrance; she stared down at the round doors at her feet. Below a layer of floor that could slide open with a touch, the only thing keeping the room air pressurised was a small energy field that acted like a well beneath the doors, like a net that kept air in but naught else. 

“Come here, child.”

Steeling herself, Sansa did so. It took her nearly forty paces to reach her aunt, and when she did she stopped a steps away. The universe outside was a veil of stars and inky space.

“Eyrie station was constructed millennia ago, but it was the ancient Sith who added this.” Lysa’s voice echoed harshly in this unadorned space despite the softness of her tone. She pointed to the door at her feet, which was indistinguishable from the rest of the floor but for a narrow line of silvery metal that marked its perimeter, and a blinking control panel upon a translucent column of glass. “They made it for public executions. Anyone who committed high treason against the Order was brought here and made an example of. Do you know how they work?” Lysa asked, nodding towards the Gates of the Moon. 

Sansa shook her head. “No.” 

“They’re modified suspension fields,” Lysa explained. “Originally designed to immobilise and relieve pressure on damaged bones, like those clunky old replar splints.”

Sansa could remember upgraded replar splints being applied to her brother’s legs after his fall. He had screamed when they were applied, but afterwards he only ever showed pain when they were taken off. He could not walk well with them, but her parents had been loath to have his legs amputated and prostheses applied instead. When he came of age, they said, Bran could make that decision for himself. They would not cut off his legs, no matter how useless the limbs had been. 

Lysa continued without pause, making flighty gestures with her hands as she gazed out at the Gates. “Instead of holding matter together, they disperse it. The effect is quite chilling. Any mass that attempts to pass through, be it organic or otherwise, is ripped apart at a molecular level. When a person goes through, all that’s left is a -” she fluttered her fingers, “- pink mist.”

After a moment of uneasy silence, Sansa said, “Why have you asked me to -?”

“I know the truth. I know what you’ve done.” 

Sansa froze. Her heart pounded in her chest. One of her hands reached for the needle hanging from its chain, and she enclosed it with trembling fingers. “I never should have sent that message, Aunt Lysa, I can explain -”

Lysa rounded on her, face pulled into a rictus snarl. “Don’t be coy with me!” she spat. “You kissed him! You kissed Petyr!”

Taking a half step back, Sansa stammered, “What -? No! I didn’t! You don’t understand -!”

Before she could retreat any further, Lysa snatched Sansa’s arm and hauled her closer. “I saw you! You can’t lie to me! I know what I saw!”

“He kissed me! I didn’t want it!”

_ “Liar!” _

A hand fisted in Sansa’s hair, tearing so violently she could feel some of the roots give way. Lysa pushed down, and Sansa fell to her knees. The air of the hall stirred when Lysa hit the console upon its pedestal, and the doors opened. Sansa tilted forward. She only just caught herself on the edge of the floor, her hands gripping the rim of silver metal as tight as she could. Lysa’s hand was still gripping her hair, the other squeezing her upper arm in a vice-like grip. 

“Stop! Please! I didn’t -! I didn’t do anything!”

Lysa was snarling invectives, shoving at Sansa’s shoulder and the back of her neck with all her weight. It was everything Sansa could do to keep herself crouched on the ground and not tumbling through the door into the cold hard vacuum of space. There was nothing outside except an empty, frozen silence. Her arms trembled beneath the strain. 

“Lysa!” a voice rang out from the entrance of the great hall. “Let her go!”

Sansa froze. Lysa’s hands remained clutched in Sansa’s hair and on her shoulder. Sansa could not move to see who had entered the hall, but she knew that voice. 

When Lysa spoke, the anger had been replaced with a watery tone, as though she were fighting back tears. “You can’t want her. You can’t. She’s a stupid empty-headed little girl. She’ll never love you, Petyr. Not the way I do.”

“There’s no need for tears, my dear.”

“That’s not what you said on Coruscant. You said - You said to put tears in Jon’s wine, and I did. You said to write to Cat and tell her it was the Lannisters, and I did. You said you killed Joffrey, and I gave you safe harbour. You said -”

“I know,” he hushed gently, and his voice sounded closer. “I know what I said.”

“And I told Father of how clever you were! I defended you! Everything I did, I did for you! For  _ us!” _

Sansa’s eyes darted until she could just see what was happening in her peripheral vision. Littlefinger moved slowly, as if afraid any movement would startle her into sudden action. “And I am so grateful. I always have been. You’ve always been there for me, believed in me when nobody else would.”

Lysa was nodding furiously; her grip on Sansa slackened. “Always.  _ Always.” _

When Sansa twitched in her aunt’s grasp, Lysa’s hands clamped down like manacles on her upper arms. She bit her lower lip to stifle a whimper of pain, and Lysa shook her like a ragdoll. “Then why did you kiss her?” Lysa hissed. “ _ Why?  _ We’re together now, after we’ve waited so long -- why would you want to kiss  _ her?  _ She is a child! _ ”  _

He was standing only a pace away now. His hands were held out as if in supplication, and he had eyes only for Lysa. “Let her go. She is nothing to me. Nothing at all. I swear it. There is only room in my heart for one. You know that.”

“Yes,” Lysa breathed. “Yes. Yes, of course. Yes.”

“Let her go.”

Lysa’s hands relaxed, and Sansa scrambled back from the edge on her hands and knees, panting. Meanwhile, Littlefinger had pulled Lysa in a stiff hug; she was crying in his arms. 

“There, there, now,” he murmured. “Everything will be alright. Shh.”

He pulled back slightly to cup her face in his hands and dry her cheeks. Her face seemed to light up when she looked at him. He smiled. And then he pushed her through the door. 

In quiet horror, Sansa watched her aunt’s body drift slowly towards the Gates of the Moon. Littlefinger’s expression was utterly neutral when he tapped the control panel to shut the doors once more. Sansa looked away just before the body could touch the glowing energy field. When she glanced up again, it was to find Littlefinger offering her a hand. With movements far more steady than she could have thought possible -- it must have been shock -- Sansa took it, and rose to her feet. 

* * *

 

 

Sansa was embroidering a new nanosilk gown when one of Littlefinger’s spies admitted himself to her quarters. She folded the silk over so that he could not see the snarling sigil of her House threaded into the fabric, and instead busied herself with a bit of innocuous hemwork. 

The man dropped a heavy crate onto the floor before her, as if setting a fresh kill at her feet. With a flourish, he opened the crate. “For you, Lady Alayne.”

Leaning forward in her seat, Sansa peered at the crate’s contents. Rich clothes. Fine jewels. Copious amounts of them. All familiar. 

“Minister Baelish would like to bestow upon you a gift. These are the belongings of his dearly departed wife,” the man informed her. “She won’t be needing them anymore.”

The thought of wearing anything that had belonged to Lysa made Sansa feel sick to her stomach. “Tell my father that I thank him,” was all she said. “And that he is very thoughtful.” 

The man did not leave, despite her dismissive tone. “Minister Baelish also requests your presence for dinner this evening.”

“Of course,” Sansa forced a small smile onto her face. “I look forward to it.”

Finally, the man inclined his head in a bow, and left. Even after he had gone, she continued to work on the hemline. It was not until she was sure he was well and truly gone that she pulled the half-finished wolf’s head back into her lap. She smoothed her hand over the silver thread and angled her head to one side, trying to imagine what it would look like when it was finished.

It would need bigger teeth, she decided, and set herself to task once more. 

The needle around her neck chimed softly, a note almost too low to hear. She dropped her work, and fumbled with the chain that hung from her neck. Darting a furtive glance over her shoulder, Sansa turned her back on the door and hunched over the needle. 

Breathlessly, she pressed the needle’s tip and read the small holographic message that unscrolled. It was brief, but it made her heart beat quicker all the same. 

_ Lady Sansa, _

_ I hear the Unknown Regions are beautiful during this season. I will bring a bouquet of roses for our gracious host, bound with ribbons of fire and blood. _

_ -Ellaria _

The moment she had finished reading, the hologram vanished like smoke. No matter how many times she pressed the tip of the needle, it would not alight. 

Another chime, this time from her clock. Sansa glanced over at the luminous display on her bedside table. She folded up her new gown and all the thread with it, before tucking the bundle beneath her bed, where her wolf pelt waited. It would take her another day or two to finish. For now, she had to play the game and attend dinner. 

* * *

 

 

They said Robert Arryn died in his sleep. They said the shaking took him in the night, when no medical droids could be called to his aid. They said it was such a shame to lose one so young, but nobody meant it. At least, nobody who said that in Sansa’s presence meant it. They mimed the words and the sorrowful expressions, but their hearts whispered the truth beneath the masks they showed the world. 

The day of his funeral was her fourteenth birthday. Sansa wore a long veil of impenetrable black lace to the event. It fell past her waist, and its long train fluttered in her wake with every step so that she appeared to be a bride in mourning. When Littlefinger saw her, his face lit up, and his gaze roamed over her from crown to toe. He offered her his arm as they walked down the length of the great transparisteel hall of Eyrie station. 

All the nobles and Captains of the fleet had amassed in the hall to mourn the death of their young ruler, and to hail their new Lord Protector. They were dressed for the occasion in sombre blacks and greys, tabs of rank on their shoulders, caps held over their hearts in respect as the ashes of Robert Arryn were carried to the door in the ground and ritualistically scattered into space by the handful. 

From behind the mesh of her veil, Sansa scanned the faces of the crowd. Their heads were bowed. They only donned their caps once the doors were closed, and Robert’s gilded urn placed on a pedestal in the very centre of the hall, where it would remain on display for another week. 

Patting her hand and then lifting it away, Littlefinger stepped forward to address the crowd. “Today we mourn the death of one taken too young in life. The universe was harsh to dear sweet Robert. It is a travesty that, for all our technological advances, we could not save him from the illness that plagued him all his life. We -”

“But that’s not what happened at all, is it?”

Littlefinger did a double take. He frowned over his shoulder at Sansa in puzzlement. “What?” 

“You killed him,” Sansa said, and the hall was deathly quiet. “You killed Lysa Arryn, too.”

His dark eyes darted from her to the watching crowd. “Alayne, what’s -?”

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Don’t call you your name?”

Reaching up, she pulled the veil free and let it drop to the floor. Her hair was a rich harvest auburn and bound in a braid over one shoulder, her shoulders draped in a wolf’s pelt from the wintry reaches of Lothal, a direwolf embroidered in silver thread across her chest. “I am the Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and you will refer to me as such.”

Littlefinger was staring at her. The entire amassed congregation was staring at her. She could feel the weight of every gaze upon her shoulders, and she stood straighter. 

Petyr glanced about furtively. He ducked his head and his voice lowered to a hiss. “What are you doing?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Is that not obvious? I am exposing you, Minister Baelish. Everyone here thinks I murdered Joffrey Baratheon, but you and I both know it was you.”

He tried to draw himself up, but no matter what he did she towered over him. “There’s no proof.”

“I don’t need proof. You’re going to confess.” 

At that, he appeared amused, even relaxing a fraction as though she had just put him at ease with a joke. 

Sansa’s hands gripped into fists. She did not need to raise her voice to be heard. Every word echoed throughout the great transparisteel hall. “Confess. Tell me the truth. Tell me why you killed Joffrey Baratheon. Tell me why you killed Jon Arryn. Tell me why you killed Lysa Arryn. Tell me why you killed Robert Arryn. Tell me why you betrayed my father and my mother.”

He shook his head as if in disbelief, but he could not tear his eyes away, as though he were transfixed by the force of her gaze. The entire congregation watched in silence, every Captain holding their tongue to witness this moment.

When Littlefinger tried to open his mouth to speak, Sansa could already sense the lie in the air. Her face went smooth and cold as ice. Something bright as moonlit ice welled up inside her chest and settled in her ribcage. “Tell me the truth.”

Suddenly the air was filled with a liquid silence, a pressure like being submerged in deep water. His mouth dropped open, and a choked noise caught in the back of his throat. Something flickered across Littlefinger’s face, a hybrid of disbelief and pain, but most of all fear. His hand flew to his chest and he gasped for air. 

Sansa did not blink. She stepped forward, and he shrank back from her. She did not need to touch him, yet he dropped to his knees at her feet, both hands clutching his neck as though he were strangling himself. When she spoke again, her words were wintry. “You will tell me the truth.  _ Now.”  _

“Please,” he gasped. 

He tried to touch the hem of her gown, but recoiled. The air rippled, and his head whipped back as if he had been physically struck, though Sansa had not moved a muscle. Already a dark bruise gathered beneath the skin of his cheek. With a rattling wheeze, the words seemed to be forced from his mouth as though she were dragging them out, prising them like precious stones, like crystal dug from the earth, syllable by syllable. “I loved your mother. Ever since I was a boy. It should have been me. I did it because it should have been me. Because I wanted her. Because I wanted  _ you.”  _

The great hall was so quiet, Sansa could hear every rustle of fabric, every pounding of hearts, the barest flutter of a pulse at Petyr’s neck. 

“Say it. Say you confess.”

“I -” He choked. “I confess.”

“You said you would do anything for me once,” she murmured softly.  He was staring up at her, and she could see the dawning realisation in his eyes as she pointed to the floor behind him, where Robert Arryn’s body had been ejected into space not moments ago, where Lysa’s body had fallen into the endless black. “Open the Gates, and throw yourself out.”

“Sansa -”

She seemed to hear her own voice as though from a great distance. It sent a shiver through the room’s inhabitants like the winds that whistled over the icy peaks of Ilum beneath the night sky.  _ “You will open the Gates, and throw yourself out.” _

Everyone in the hall -- hundreds of battle-hardened Captains and soldiers -- took an abortive half step forward, as if to comply with her command before they could come to their senses. Sansa ignored them. She focused on Littlefinger instead. 

He tried to fight it. The struggle warred openly across his face; his cheeks went red, then purple. His dark eyes fluttered, and a vein throbbed on his forehead. Then, with a heaving gasp of air, Littlefinger jerked upright. His limbs worked like they were pulled by invisible strings. With her eyes guiding his every movement, he walked himself over to the Gates of the Moon and pressed the command console. 

This time she did not look away. She watched his body drop from the hall and scramble against the absence of gravity. She watched until he hit the energy field, until his molecules were consumed in fire and scattered to the vacuum of space like brumal ash. Only then did she turn to face the congregation.  

One by one, like a great wave, the Captains and members of Court sank to their knees until every member of the hall was bowing their head. Sansa went to straighten her shoulders only to find that she was already standing tall. Chain wrapped around her fist, she strode towards exit. Not once did she look back towards the Gates.

One of the Captains -- his chest bearing more tabs of rank than the others -- rose to his feet as she passed. He fell into step behind her. She could hear all the others follow.

“Ready the fleet. Leave only a small garrison behind to hold the Corridor in our absence,” Sansa ordered. “We’re leaving.”

“Where to, Lady Stark?”

Outside, the stars glimmered, cold and harsh and distant. She spared them not a glance. “To Winterfell. To claim what is mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Anne Carson’s translation of Sappho: "ἀστέρων πάντων ὀ κάλλιστος" from 'If Not, Winter'
> 
> Some of this story follows the books. Some follows the show. Some of it is outright omitted. I picked and choosed based on what would make the most sense narratively and what would be the least convoluted. Also based on how long it would be because wow this oneshot got out of control.


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